


Where the Grass Is Greener

by chemma66



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Drug Use, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Hand jobs, Ridiculousness, it's just pot though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 11:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2386340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock indulges in an herbal soother of his own for a case. John catches him in the act, and joins in. Dancing, munchies, and sexy times soon follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the Grass Is Greener

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unknownsister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/gifts).



> This was a fleeting thought I had one day, which I immediately texted my fabulous friend B about: "Wouldn't it be funny if Sherlock and John got high and then made-out and stuff?" 
> 
> And then this happened.
> 
> It's not betaed or brit-picked or even edited by me very thoroughly. It was just a fun little adventure to write out with Sherlock and John being silly (it's their fault it grew to this ridiculous word count).
> 
> Goose - I hope you enjoy your gift, because you are my favorite and basically the coolest person I know. It's assuredly not the best thing ever written in the galaxy, or even the planet, but I hope it at least makes you smile.

 

John walked down Baker Street, weary eyes on his feet and one thing in his future motivating his determined steps home: a nice, hot cup of tea in his favorite mug. Perhaps some crap telly, a warm bath, and a book before bed. 

Now with a growing smile on his face and hope seeping back into his features, John reached into his pocket to withdraw his keys. Before he could even push the door open, he suddenly stopped.

Was that? No… 

John looked up to the window of their flat, which was indeed open. He glanced around the darkened, nearly empty street and saw no others in the area open. But in theory, that smell could be coming from anywhere. Down the street, a nearby alley, or just a weird coincidence, come to think of it.

John was used to odd smells coming from the flat occasionally; he often put up with Sherlock's frequent experiments, complaining only when certain methods disrupted his own routine. Strange smells frequently led to inconvenient situations, the occasion with the thick green smoke and copious vomiting coming first to his mind.

But right now, as he pushed the door open and began making his way up the stairs, all of his thoughts were making an effort to explain that the smell, though it was getting stronger, could not be coming from their flat.

There was no way that Sherlock Holmes could be smoking pot.

He hated the stuff! Well, John thought, he had never been particularly concerned with it, but John assumed that the sluggish effects that often accompanied the drug would put the frenetic detective off.

But as John entered the flat, he was immediately (and not for the first time) proven wrong by Sherlock, who was indeed lounging on the sofa with a half-smoked joint burning in his long fingers. 

The man allowed a slow smile to creep onto his face, and blinked impossibly slow at the approaching form of John.

"Sherlock, what the hell… What are you doing?" John asked, arms crossed as he stood by the sofa.

"John," Sherlock began. But didn't continue.

John waited, eyebrows raised as he remained silent for Sherlock's response.

"Joooooohhhhhnnnnnnn…" Sherlock drawled, staring off somewhere in front of him rather than at the man he was addressing.

"Yes, Sherlock? Care to explain?" John asked again.

"John. Joooohhhnn. Jooowwweeeaaannnnn. Have you ever noticed," Sherlock started, but immediately interrupted himself with a bout of ridiculous giggles.

"Christ," John huffed and sat down unceremoniously on the coffee table, settling in for an exchange that would no doubt take ages to get through.

"Have you ever noticed your name?" Sherlock asked, his head swinging lazily back over to look at John.

"Of course I've noticed my name, Sherlock. It's my name. People say it all the time," John answered, wary of his own patience already dwindling.

"No, no no no no no. That's not what I mean. John. Joooooohhhnnn. Jaaahooooonnn. See?" Sherlock said, swatting John on the arm as if to get his attention.

"Yes, that's my name. What am I supposed to be seeing?" John replied.

"It's so… it's so _weird_. It sounds weird in my mouth. Doesn't it sound weird to you? It's different than how everyone else says it. Jaaaawwwnnn. I like it," Sherlock declared.

"I'm glad," John said, and couldn't help the tiny smile that he quickly hid. He cleared his throat and attempted to ask Sherlock the reason for his state once more. "Why are you smoking pot, Sherlock? I would've thought you hated the stuff."

"I do!" Sherlock shouted with excitement. In contrast to his words, Sherlock brought the joint up to his mouth, curving his lips around the thickly rolled joint and taking a slow drag. John couldn't help it - the idiot had the most ridiculous lips - and he watched in unabashed fascination, while Sherlock kept his eyes on him.

John might've imagined it, but as Sherlock withdrew the joint, he licked his lips deliberately slowly and leaned his head back just a small amount; it was enough to draw John's eyes to that white expanse of skin as Sherlock swallowed down the smoke. What was… what was he asking about, again? John had completely lost his train of thought, and was convinced the stuff must be getting to him too. He hadn't let his thoughts get this dangerous in front of Sherlock in a while.

Finally, Sherlock parted his lips and infinitesimal amount, the smoke slowly sneaking through the wetted curves up into the space above him. 

"It's for a case," Sherlock finally answered, the last of the smoke puffing out with his words toward John. 

 He lifted his hand slowly - probably to take another drag from the joint, John thought with horror. Frustrated by the weirdly seductive mood Sherlock was in and how it was affecting him, John reached out to take it from him.

 "Alright, then. Give it here," John asked, slipping the object from Sherlock's fingers. 

 Sherlock's eyebrows climbed towards his hairline, his mouth shaped in a mock-gasp as he watched John take a very long pull. He held the smoke in his lungs, closing his eyes to avoid the scrutiny of the detective. Turning toward the window in some form of courtesy, John opened his eyes and blew the smoke out in one long stream.

 "John. Watson." Sherlock stated. John turned back to him with a smirk. "I am surprised at you, doctor."

 "Ah, this stuff?" John raised the joint once more for another long inhale. "It's harmless. In moderation." John added, trying a serious expression in Sherlock's direction.

 Sherlock giggled as John held in the smoke; when he exhaled, Sherlock lifted his fingers to waft through the cloud, still chuckling to himself. John took another quick draw, and offered it back to Sherlock.

 "One more, before it's done?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded slowly, arms flopping back down to his sides.

"I want to try smoke rings. But…" Sherlock began, though he seemed to forget halfway through what he was going to complain about.

"But, what?" John.

"My arms," Sherlock sighed dramatically. "They're too heavy. Help me, John."

"Lazy git," John said, though he was leaning over to place the joint near Sherlock's mouth anyway.

John immediately regretted his decision to assist Sherlock as those tantalizing lips touched his fingers and Sherlock sucked. John was hypnotized, staring at his lips while he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, carefully studying and watching despite his altered state.

Sherlock drew back a tiny amount, sneaking the very tip of his tongue to brush John's fingers as he drew his hand away. John watched in fascination as Sherlock's lips made that impossible shape of theirs, his tongue hovering in the middle as he exhaled in small bursts. The perfectly shaped smoke rings floated into the air, dissipating somewhere over their heads.

"Of bloody course you'd be perfect at that too. Wanker," John said, his speech degenerating just a bit as the drug began to kick in. 

Sherlock deep-throated chuckle sent shivers in unexpected places; John had to move away from him pretty soon, or he might do something stupid. He rose, taking another long pull from the now tiny stub, and walked to the kitchen as he exhaled.

What did he want to do in here again? 

Oh, right. Tea. Yeah, tea sounded really good.

John approached the kettle and flicked it on, a small laugh escaping him at the pleasant noise. He reached up to open the cabinet and withdraw a mug, pausing for a moment over the dilemma of which one to use. That one was pretty, but that brown one was bigger. 

A long, drawn out groan came from somewhere back in the living room, interrupting John's study of the various mugs and containers on their shelves.

Worried that Sherlock might be sick, he turned and made his way as quickly as his feet would carry him to the doorway.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?" He asked, noting the funny tingle in his tongue as he made the 's' noise.

"This, stuff…" Sherlock answered. "It's hateful. Whhhhhyyyyy do poeple do it? John. You must know. You understand everything."

"Well, it feels good, doesn't it?" John asked. He certainly felt delightful. He'd smoked every once and a while in uni; it had been a welcome break from his often overwhelming course work and a way to spend a relaxing evening with his mates.

"No. Well, yes, but. I don't know," Sherlock replied. His arms flailed about, sparking a laugh from John when he nearly smacked himself in the face. So much for not being able to lift them. "I don't feel like moving but I want to!" He yelled.

"You shouldn't be laying down, for starters," John explained. 

"Why?" Sherlock's head snapped up in alarm.

"You'll get…" John paused for dramatic effect, leaning forward to enhance the suspense. "Couch. Locked."

John exploded into laughter, delighted at his brilliant pun. It felt amazing to laugh so he kept doing it, clutching his stomach and staggering forward as the sounds kept pouring out of him. Only when he stopped for breathe did he notice that Sherlock had sat up, but was looking at the floor in confusion.

"Get it?" John asked. But obviously he didn't. John struggled to explain through his giggles. "It's called being couchlocked. Sher _lock_ is couch _locked_. See?" 

Finally, Sherlock understood, and immediately began laughing as well, which of course sparked another wave from John. This continued for some time, John's quest for tea completely forgotten. Eventually they tapered off into contemplative silence once more.

Sherlock stood, wandering around the room slowly; John watched as he walked to the bookshelf and stopped. Then he walked to his violin stand, and stopped once more. With a frustrated growl, he turned toward the kitchen.

"I want music. But my arms are heavy again," Sherlock explained in desperation to John.

"You poor thing," John said with a grin. "Here."

John withdrew his phone from his pocket, pulling up the music app he had used maybe once on the day he downloaded it. He picked a genre that seemed relaxing; it had an interesting picture next to it, anyway, he thought. John set the phone on the table as the beat of a song began pulsing from its speaker. He took his place leaning on the doorway to the kitchen once more; he liked this spot. It felt good, and he could watch Sherlock from here.

Sherlock stared at the phone in fascination for a good thirty seconds, gradually moving his head to the beat. Soon, his legs began to sway, his hips joining as the song reached its bridge and the beat was temporarily vacant. Once the snap of the snare returned, Sherlock's arms joined the movement. Suddenly, Sherlock was dancing quite sensually to the music, his eyes closed and seemingly unaware of John watching from just a few feet away.

John surprised himself, hardly feeling embarrassed at all. Sherlock could open his eyes at any moment and see him drooling over the undulation of those slim hips, the rippling muscles in his arms exposed from the rolled up sleeves of John's favorite purple shirt which was now stretched tightly over Sherlock's body. He should've turned away, not let Sherlock see John's obvious obsession with the detective that had only been worsening with time.

The song ended, switching quickly to the next tune. It had a similar, slow beat, which Sherlock's hips kept up with easily. John watched them slide back and forth, not knowing that Sherlock's eyes had finally opened again.

"Jaaaaahh-hhhaaa-ooohhnnn," he said in an odd sing-song way, a gorgeous smile of his face. 

Oh Christ, John thought immediately - he's caught me. 

Sherlock's arms reached toward him and the long fingers beckoned him over.

"Come dance. I feel odd and it's wonderful," Sherlock said, as though that would explain exactly why John should join him.

John hesitated, properly stoned now and still bloody terrified of what this could mean. It was all he wanted, to be close to Sherlock like this, and everything he'd been denying himself for what felt like their whole time together. Sherlock couldn't want him that way, he'd said a million times. He wasn't gay, he'd said a million more.

But the light was draining from the flat, the darkness and his hazy mind coaxing him into some form of a dream where this strange man, this person that embodied everything he ever desired - all of the things that made him complete - was literally reaching out to him. 

So John's feet carried him forward and closer to Sherlock, who was now beaming and opening his arms wider. 

Still nervous, John left space between them, carefully copying the slow roll of Sherlock's hips. Sherlock allowed it, watching in rapt fascination as John mirrored every twitch of his. Sherlock rested his hands on John's shoulders, a hum of satisfaction escaping John before he could stop it. 

Sherlock looked up at him, still smiling; the song changed once more, this time with a much faster beat.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped. "I know this song. I like it."

"Hmm," John answered, focused on matching the faster pace Sherlock had taken up to accommodate the new sound. His eyebrows creased in frustration, his clouding thoughts doing nothing to help his lackluster dance skills.

Sherlock seemed to sense this, and moved his hands to John's hips in an effort to assist. John grinned in appreciation, his arms moving of their own accord to Sherlock's shoulders. 

Sherlock began humming along, a word escaping every now and then. John chuckled, surprised by his odd taste in music. He never would have guessed Sherlock would enjoy this electronic…stuff. He bent over with the quiet laughter, losing the rhythm. Sherlock tried to correct him, which only resulted in the shuffling of John's feet and more laughter. He rested his head on Sherlock's bony shoulder, the giggles rolling through him. 

This spot was even better than the door, he thought to himself. It smelled nice, it felt nice. And he had a better view of Sherlock's hips from here, too.

Sherlock seemed to enjoy John being there as well, wrapping his arms around John and drawing him closer. Without much other thought, their hips slotted together and their chests pressed against one another. John shifted his head to fit more comfortably against Sherlock's, who had moved his head to lean against John's. 

They swayed in tandem together now, the music essentially forgotten. John's hands moved over Sherlock's back; it felt like velvet and he couldn't seem to stop. Sherlock hummed in appreciation and nuzzled into the spot behind John's ear. 

John gasped, an obvious shiver racking through him. He was past the point of caring: everything felt absolutely amazing and he was so very far from wanting any of it to stop. Sherlock's breath blew shakily from his lips as he moved his own hands slowly down John's back.

John felt anticipation sweep wonderfully through his veins; the movement was slow and seemed to take ages, but John reveled in every torturous moment. Finally, Sherlock's warm hands cupped his arse through his trousers.

"Sherlock…" He said with a pleasant sigh, not really sure what he intended to say, though it felt inexplicably right to say his name.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, rolling John's hips with his own hands now. Both of them were aroused despite their indulgence, and neither seemed too concerned by it at the moment.

"Feels good," John slurred.

"Hmmm," Sherlock hummed in response. The vibrations from his impossibly deep voice moved through John and added to the intense connection.

"Feels… floaty," John explained. He felt a bit ridiculous, but also wonderful.

Sherlock laughed in response, his lips opening against John's neck in the process. The wet, humid sensation that followed sent goosebumps all over John's body, and he tightened his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and arched his neck in response. His own laughter joined Sherlock's; a tongue snuck out between chuckles and made a slow circle on John's throat. John hiccuped in response, his laughter going up an octave.

"Tickles!" He squealed, making a feeble attempt to wiggle out of Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock growled and tightened his arms in answer, doubling his efforts on John's neck.

"Sherlock!" John shrieked, though he really, really didn't want him to stop.

"You taste good," Sherlock explained, adding nibbles to his assault.

John continued to giggle, moving to accommodate Sherlock's exploration to the other side of his throat.

"Ahh," Sherlock said after a minute of this.

"What is it?" John asked, immediately self-conscious of how he actually might taste.

"I'm hungry," Sherlock said, drawing back to look at John with a horribly displeased expression.

John took a mental picture, committing the most ridiculous frown he'd ever seen to memory. 

"Let's get you some food, then," John said, and waited for Sherlock to release him. No such thing happened.

"No," he said, practically stomping his foot when John tried to extract himself.

"One of us will need to let go if you want to eat, love," John said. He thought fleetingly that he probably shouldn't have let that endearment slip, but he simply didn't care just now.

"Mhmm," Sherlock refused, holding John closer and burying his face into his shirt.

"Sherlock, I can't," John dissolved into giggles as Sherlock adorably rubbed his face back and forth against his jumper.

"We can't make food when we're glued together," John finally got out, once he'd calmed a bit.

Sherlock lifted his face and looked at John with an unbelievably fond expression.

"John, you are brilliant. Brilliantly brilliant. Always brilliant," Sherlock said, beaming once more.

Sherlocks hands moved down to John's hips once more, forgoing an explanation by demonstrating his idea to John. Sherlock twisted John's hips until he got the hint and turned in his arms; his back was now plastered to Sherlock's front, his arms lying at his sides.

"Well, now what, genius," John asked.

Sherlock shushed John, tucking his head onto his shoulder, his legs behind John's, and his arms fully around his waist. He lifted his leg, nudging John's in the process. In response, John stepped forward. Sherlock moved with him, repeating the process with the other leg, until they were steadily making their way into the kitchen - glued together.

"Oh!" John exclaimed and threw his arms up. "I am brilliant!"

Sherlock gave him a quick peck on the neck as a reward, and John rested his hands on Sherlock's. When they reached the pantry, John hesitated.

"Now, what?" He asked.

"Beans on toast, John," Sherlock rumbled in response.

"Hm yeah. Genius, I tell you," John responded.

Sherlock moved his hands, dislodging John's. John was afraid he'd move away until Sherlock took John's arms and began maneuvering them for him. John took the hint and let his arms go limp; together, they withdrew the bread and a can of beans from the pantry. Sherlock moved them to the side to pull a pot down and retrieve a can opener from a drawer nearby. This process continued - not without multiple interjections of uncontrollable laughter - until Sherlock and John were standing in front of the stove, two pieces of toast waiting on a plate nearby as the beans warmed on the burner.

With time now to waste, Sherlock started humming the song he'd enjoyed so much before. John idly swirled the wooden spoon through the pot, attempting to hum along and failing miserably.

"This is ridiculous," John said.

"It is ridiculous," Sherlock agreed, propping his head on John's shoulder.

"Stupidly silly," John continued, still stirring the beans.

"Very stupid. Very silly," Sherlock said.

"Are you just repeating me?" John said in mock-horror.

"Am I?" Sherlock said. John waited a moment for the rest, chuckling when Sherlock finally added, "-just repeating you?"

"You hate repetition," John explained. "Which makes sense. I mean, it's the epitome of stupidity. You see, the person wasn't even capable of understanding the question as it came through to them verbatim, you know? And now they're repeating it back to you, like you hadn't been the one to say it. And it's weird because you said it to them! And they're saying it back like a question to you, when you asked the question… and they haven't even started to consider the answer, Sherlock. They're still stuck on the question. They haven't really gotten to the question yet either, because they're questioning their own question."

Sherlock froze, probably daunted by the challenge of echoing John's monologue; John paused to give him time to repeat everything, and then realized how long that would take. And while it might've taken a while, it would be nice to hear his voice say all of that. Sherlock's voice was quite nice, he thought, and--

"I hate repetition," Sherlock stated, apparently satisfied that he'd at least covered the main subject. Which of course caused a fresh round of laughter from John, dislodging them and almost causing his forehead to collide with the counter.

Sherlock stumbled backward, now laughing along with John, clutching his stomach in silent gasps, his eyes scrunched impossibly tight. When they got their breathe back, John focused on the beans and Sherlock turned to the kitchen table. He was meticulously arranging all of the papers and flasks, putting things in proper groups and in descending order of size, when he suddenly straightened up.

"John," he shouted, though John was only a few feet from him.

John switched off the stove with a flourished flick of his wrist and spun to address Sherlock, hand perched on his hip.

"Yes?"

"The beans. They're necessary, for the toast. For beans on toast, we have to put them on top, do you see?"

"I have just the thing, Sherlock," John answered, spinning around once more to wrap a towel around the handle of the pot and remove it from the stove, bringing it over to the plate.

"Brilliant," Sherlock breathed, watching John is fascination.

"I am brilliant. Sherlock Holmes told me so," John said, ladling out the beans onto the browned slices of bread.

John replaced the pot onto the stove and made to sit before Sherlock shot a hand out to stop him.

"No, no. Not here. The music is in there. I want to be where the music is, John. I must be where there is music," Sherlock explained, taking the plate and walking into the living room where John's phone was indeed still playing the hypnotic melodies.

John followed obediently, eyes fixed on the plate of very important items that Sherlock was balancing on his hand as though he was a waiter. John let out a chortle at the thought of Sherlock in a French restaurant, sporting a mustache and ridiculous tuxedo.

"Here," Sherlock pointed to the corner of the couch, instructing John to sit; as soon as he did, Sherlock plopped unceremoniously into his lap, arranging his limbs until they seemed fitted comfortably together.

"We should eat like this every day," Sherlock declared.

"You are so stoned, Sherlock Holmes," John replied, mouth full of bread and beans.

"But we should, don't you agree? Much more efficient."

John struggled to maneuver his arm, trying to bring the piece of bread closer to his mouth so he could take more bites more frequently.

"How is this… how does this work better?" John added, confused by his own question. It was hard to focus on anything but food right now. It was very important.

"That's it!" Sherlock shouted, jostling John's careful pose. "That's it, John. You've said it exactly without even asking the question. Well, you asked and answered it, which is exactly that opposite of the stupidity you were talking about earlier. Isn't that amazing?"

John stuffed an enormous bite into his mouth, chewing with delight, toes wiggling in pleasure where the lay on either side of Sherlock's stretched form on the couch. He took his time before answering, though Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"It is amazing," he said, finishing the last of his toast. "Wait, what's amazing?"

"You, obviously," Sherlock answered, finishing his snack as well.

"I can't remember," John confessed, relaxing back into the couch as he shook with laughter.

"How does this work, John. That was the question. And the answer is, it's better!" Sherlock said, twisting to fling his hands before John's face, as though that would help to illustrate his point.

"Ohh!" John gasped. "Yes, it is better."

John continued to lay back, fascinated with the various patterns in their ceiling. He'd never really looked at them before, he realized. Sherlock twisted in his lap, his chin colliding with John's sternum as he stared up at him.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I want more toast," Sherlock whined.

"I should make you smoke more often," John replied. "It's easy to get you to eat when you're like this."

John smiled down at Sherlock, but it seemed like he hadn't heard a word John said. He was staring at John's lips and focused on absolutely nothing else.

"You have more," Sherlock said.

"No, I don't. If I did, I would be eating it," John replied.

"No," Sherlock insisted. "You have more, there. I want it." Sherlock reached his impossibly long arms up to John's face and touched his ridiculously elegant fingers against his face, smudging something near the corner of his mouth.

"Your limbs don't make any sense," John declared to back up to the ceiling. The pleasant fogginess had settled over his limbs now that he was laying down and the warmth and comfort of Sherlock's body over his only increased that satisfaction. He didn't plan on moving ever again, if he could help it.

"You don't make any sense," Sherlock whispered, hand still tickling over John's face. John closed his eyes, enjoying the barrage of sensations overwhelming him and drowning out any confusing thoughts that might have tainted this quiet moment. The music hummed in the background, the darkness settled around him, and Sherlock leaned in.

And kissed him.

Well, he started with licking the corner of John's mouth, but a quick flick of his tongue turned into the press of his lips, and the press of lips morphed into movement. And that just felt amazing to John, even with all of the other lovely things happening to him, so he moved his face downward and leaned just slightly to the right so their lips could slot together, and Sherlock hummed in satisfaction. 

The hand by his face moved down to John's neck, where it was shortly joined by the other so Sherlock could hoist himself up for easier access. John's hands reached up to wrap around Sherlock's back and assist in the process, and decided they felt quite nice there. He rubbed back and forth, reveling in Sherlock's closeness.

John tilted his head a bit further, skirting his tongue across Sherlock's lower lip and using the motion to part them slightly. He tentatively dipped forward, wary of Sherlock's response; but Sherlock drew himself up further, opening his mouth against John's to let their tongues twist together as they briefly gasped for air.

Sherlock made some sort of noise, something that could either have been a high-pitched grunt or a cut-off moan, but it sparked something in John. Pleasure rolled up through his feet all the way to his head and through his fingers in a rush of heat. One hand shot up to bury itself in Sherlock's curls as they continued kissing with fervor, the other wandering down toward that perfectly shaped arse.

Their mouths broke apart with a loud smack as Sherlock drew his knees up to frame John's hips, his nose and lips skirting along the edge of John's jaw and maintaining their intensely close contact though the kissing had stopped momentarily.

"Unh, John," Sherlock gasped. "I feel like I'm…buzzing all over. Is this what it normally feels like? Can we have this every day too?"

John worked to bring his thoughts together, but all he could think about was contact. Glorious, heated contact between the two of them. It felt like the distance there, tension that had been mounting for weeks and months had finally been crossed. In the literal sense, the extent was minuscule; when was the last time he'd been particularly concerned with personal space when it came to his best friend, the only person he trusted with his life? But emotionally… it felt like this build up had been mounting and drawing them further apart, taut like a rubber band that would either snap back together or break apart permanently.

Sherlock's restless, shifting movement brought him back to the present, grounding his drifting thought process. John had wanted this, though he'd been terrified. But Sherlock… Sherlock was important. Extremely important. Sherlock was everything and--

"Sherlock, wait," John said, attempting to still him by bringing a hand to each shoulder. "I need to make sure you're alright. It's important."

"I feel perfect," Sherlock breathed, dragging his face to rest comfortably in the curve of John's shoulder.

"No, I know but… I know this feels great. It feels amazing. I don't want it to stop either. But we're not ourselves, you know? Well, we are, you could say that we're more of ourselves, and--" John had to cut himself off before he said something incredibly stupid in his state. He knew he could go off on a tangent if allowed.

"Hmm." Sherlock seemed content to simply lay there and purr like a house-cat, completely unconcerned with the monumental step they were taking. John needed him to understand but just couldn't find the words; it was rather like he had _too many_ words.

"It's too much. This… between us, is too much, sometimes. Which is why it took so long, I think… but since we're really… very… relaxed," John couldn't help a small chuckle at the euphemism. "It happened easily. Now. So... I need to make sure this is okay. That tomorrow it won't be too much again. Sherlock?"

John nudged Sherlock's face with his own. It felt like ages before Sherlock finally lifted his heavy head.

"Yes. It's perfect now, and tomorrow it might even be better. All I want is to keep kissing you, and touching, and feeling like this. And tomorrow I will want it, and again after, and forever. I've always wanted this and I always will," Sherlock answered with a determined expression.

"Sherlock… I…" John felt extremely overwhelmed by the truth in his eyes, slightly glassy though they seemed.

"I know I was high. I still am, a little. But… I can explain it later. What I'm feeling now is what I always have felt, if not intensified. And torturously slower," he added with a growl, and John smiled at the small sign of Sherlock's manic demeanor peeking through.

"Now," Sherlock said, dropping his face back onto John's shoulder. "I'm exhausted from talking. I don't want to say words anymore. I want other things that don't require speech."

John agreed with a hum, returning his arms to rub at Sherlock's back, delighting in the man clutching him closer and nuzzling further into his neck. Several blissful minutes passed like this and it was vaguely possible that John may have drifted off at one point. 

Sherlock's slow breathing against his neck shifted, ghosting warm air across an extremely sensitive spot, making John squirm. Sherlock adjusted his hips in turn, bringing their groins in direct contact. John's breath caught, his heart beat quickened, and he was fully awake - and promptly reminded of their previous activity.

"Sherlock," John's rough voice ground out, his own hips beginning to move of their own volition.

"Hmmmm?" Sherlock didn't even bother opening his mouth, though John could hear the question in his tone.

"Bed. Could we?" John asked. Not that he wasn't wonderfully content where he was. The bedroom just seemed… better. More room, more privacy. All good things, John thought.

"Hmmmmrrr," Sherlock growled in response, which John was sure equalled a disagreement in asking him to move.

Moments passed as Sherlock slowly, slowly drew himself away, rather like he was a sloth clinging to John. Barely moving far from each other, the two rejoined once they were standing and made their way into the closest bedroom, which was thankfully Sherlock's; his bed was much bigger than John's and more comfortable, as Sherlock often made a point of telling him.

The two met the edge of the bed together and slowly sank down with a satisfied sigh from both. John was attempting to kick his shoes off while he still had the motivation when he felt a tickling sensation running slowly up his neck. His involuntary giggle gave way to a moan when Sherlock finally made significant contact, sucking what would no doubt be a bright, purple mark in the morning.

"Sherlock…" John half-heartedly protested. Sherlock continued the action, releasing the spot after one final nibble, a triumphant smile on his face.

John rose up quickly to capture that grin in a sloppy kiss, attempting to distract Sherlock while John rolled them over until he was straddling Sherlock; he would remove his shirt and leave a few marks of his own. Breathing into that luscious mouth, John got a bit sidetracked himself. The gentle slide of their tongues was nearly hypnotic; eventually he succeeded in his goal of unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, revealing more of that delicious, pale, perfect neck. With difficulty, he slid his mouth from Sherlock's lips and down to that tempting column of unmarked skin and set to work.

Moving his mouth in short, sucking bursts, John made his way across Sherlock's neck towards his ear, ending the trail with a firm bite to a tender earlobe.

"Ha," he whispered, using his turn to smugly grin towards the dazed man below him.

Sherlock barely noticed, merely grunting in his new mission to remove John's shirt. Those dexterous fingers seemed to be useless against the heavy weight of the jumper John was currently wearing, so he took pity on Sherlock and rose to his knees, pulling off the jumper and vest in one swoop.

John looked down Sherlock, disheveled in the dreamy, sexy way only he could pull off; one shoe still on, the other foot completely bare, his shirt only halfway unbuttoned. John took care of the remaining shoe and sock first. He ran his hands slowly up Sherlock's body, moving in between his legs and earning a purr of contentment that he could feel rumble through his fingertips. 

Once he made quick work of the surviving buttons, he tugged at the sleeves until Sherlock finally lifted himself enough to pull the offending garment away.

"There," John said, continuing his mapping of Sherlock's torso with his rough hands. 

Running his plans over the planes of Sherlock's chest, he marveled in the ease of their connection. How simple it seemed to be to just _touch_ and _be_ with this man. John smiled, his fingers slipping over a nipple and earning an arching gasp from Sherlock in response.

"Oh? Was that…" John began, repeating the gesture on the other side.

Sherlock inhaled sharply once more, his half-closed eyes sliding all the way shut as his hips undulated upwards in search of contact. John lowered himself onto his elbows, allowing their clothed erections to rub against each other. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming; Sherlock's breath left him in a huff against John's skin, while John choked out a cry of satisfaction.

"We need to… ah-" John tried to say, their hips beginning a rolling motion against each other. "We should take these… off… unh, Sh-Sherlock--"

Sherlock, opening his eyes once more, looked up at John. His pupils were nearly black with desire, his lips swollen and unbelievably tempting. He quirked his half smile toward John before he let out a small chuckle.

"Shhhhh," he murmured, pulling John down into a passionate kiss.

John immediately opened his mouth, seeking the sweet taste of Sherlock's tongue, but Sherlock merely flicked his against John's before moving down to suck John's lower lip. That pulled a ridiculous moan from John and increased the speed of his thrusts against the friction Sherlock was providing.

After a moment lost to sensation, John pulled his mouth away in search of oxygen.

"Oh, god. Sherlock, this feels--" John began, cutting himself off with his own gasp as Sherlock twisted his hips upward.

They continued to grind against each other, alternating between a fast thrusting with their lips locked and a slow circular motion as they struggled to breathe against each others necks.

After what felt like ages of rolling pleasure and pure delight, John finally felt the edge of frustration and the need to touch skin. His trapped cock rubbing against damp underwear inside his jeans turned from interesting to uncomfortable, and he made to move away so he could remedy the situation.

"MMMhh!" Sherlock growled, his arms reaching up to pull John back toward him.

"Hold on, love, hold--" John took Sherlock's flailing hands and kissed each palm before setting them on Sherlock's own belt.

"It'll feel loads better if we don't have our damn trousers on, Sherlock. And I want…" John hesitated for just a moment, briefly embarrassed before he remembered that he was in the middle of being completely naked in front of Sherlock anyway. "I want to see all of you."

"Oh," Sherlock breathed, apparently regaining his ability to speak actual words.

John rolled away to kick off his trousers and pants, slipping off his socks in the process and tossing them somewhere across the room. He turned back to Sherlock and watched as his long limbs bent across his legs to slip the tight black trousers completely off. In one fluid motion, he sunk back beside John.

John smiled, running his hand from one creamy shoulder to the soft hair of Sherlock's legs.

"Beautiful," he murmured, earning an adorable flush from Sherlock.

"Honestly, John. Sentiment is…at this point… hardly--" 

John leaned over to immediately capture his mouth once more, silencing any doubts and quickly getting back to important matters. John pulled at Sherlock's side as they kissed, arranging them so their legs were tangled together and they faced each other.

One of John's hand moved of its own accord into Sherlock's curls, caressing the dark, silky strands as if it belonged there. His other hand made its way down Sherlock's body, as Sherlock's own fingers traced up and down John's spine in an encouraging motion.

John broke away from the kiss, nosing down Sherlock's neck until he could rest his forehead on his shoulder and see what he was doing properly.

"I want to see," John said, Sherlock's hips twitching forward.

John's hand rubbed against Sherlock's prick, resting flushed and dripping against his stomach. John stroked all the way down, taking his testicles in his grasp and rolling them against his palm.

"John," Sherlock moaned, his cock jumping against John's arm.

"Yeah," John answered, moving his hand back up to Sherlock's pale length.

He brought his hand up to his mouth and quickly licked a slick surface to drag against Sherlock's cock; his hand returned, moving slowly, twisting slightly at the top before tightening his grip and sliding back down. Sherlock's breath hitched at each upward motion, and his breath left him in a groan at every down stroke. 

John's own arousal throbbed in sympathy, his hips inching closer to Sherlock and some form of stimulation; Sherlock's right hand came to the side of John's face, tilting it upward so Sherlock's tongue could plunge inside his mouth. John's ministrations continued, copying the twisting and tangling of their kissing with the rhythm in his hand.

Finally Sherlock wrenched his mouth away, but his eyes were locked on John's. His hand moved to cover John's lips, his fingers lightly tracing the puffiness there.

"Can I? John?" Sherlock asked, fingertips breaching the wet warmth.

John nodded in response, his mouth opening and eyes closing as he welcomed Sherlock's fingers. He sucked them diligently, moaning at the intrusion and the knowledge of what they would soon be doing. His own hand worked Sherlock steadily as his tongue covered Sherlock's palm, lathering wetness there.

Sherlock drew his hand away and grasped John's cock while John shook at the sudden relief; his hand stuttered to a stop as he was overcome in the pure sensation. Sherlock tightened his grip and copied the twisting technique, adding a flick of his thumb over John's reddened head.

"Oh--" John nearly shouted, so close already from the entire buildup they'd already gone through.

Sherlock's hips began thrusting into John's grip, prompting John's hand to resume it's movement as they worked each other closer and closer to their release. Their hands moved faster, rubbing against each other; their mouths met in sloppy kisses and exchanges of moans.

Sherlock came first, his body going rigid and muscles tensing. John watched in rapt attention as tendons strained against bones, his breathe catching in his lungs and then rushing out in one long groan. His fist tightened around John as the shudders racked through him, bringing John that much closer.

Sherlock spilt between them, slumping against John with a pleased sigh, his hand still wrapped firmly around John's length. He stayed there, just breathing, until he'd recovered enough to bring his head back by John's.

"Are you close, John?" Sherlock rumbled against his ear.

John could barely speak, his come-slicked hand reaching up to grasp at Sherlock's shoulder as he continued to push his hips forward.

"I'm--Sh--" John stuttered, eyes clenched as he felt everything inside him building, climbing into something delicious.

"Please," Sherlock said. "I want to see you, too."

And just like that, John felt that something explode inside him, breaking into a million pieces and blurring his vision; bright bursts of white behind his eyelids the only thing he could see as the rippling sensation ran through his entire body. Sherlock gasped in delight, watching as John spent himself into their already messy quilt, gathering the substance into his hand as he continued to pull each drop from John.

"Perfect," Sherlock muttered, marveling at their combined semen on the sheets as John struggled to breathe normally once more.

Moments passed, Sherlock's clean hand returning to it's soothing motion up and down John's spine. John released his death grip on Sherlock's shoulder, heartbeat slowing as he stroked his thumb in small circles.

"Thank you. That was… thank you," John whispered into Sherlock's mouth before bringing them together once more, peppering closed-mouth kissed on the sultry smile Sherlock was sporting.

"Gratitude seems a bit…" Sherlock started to say, no doubt about to ramble on something involving small talk and pointless social conventions. Instead, he sighed and pulled John closer.

"A bit, what?" John prompted.

"I don't feel like talking _again_ ," Sherlock said, obviously frustrated, and John just giggled in response. He figured it would take a few hours of sleep before their high would completely wear off.

"Alright. Let's at least clean up a bit so we don't wake up stuck to the sheets and each other," John said, pushing Sherlock a bit in hopes that he'd agree.

"Hmmm," Sherlock rumbled, not moving one inch. And apparently back to communicating only in grunts and hums.

John sighed in defeat, reach over the bed to grasp his discarded vest. He used the unfortunate garment to wipe his hands and chest, scooting over to Sherlock to do the same. Once they were moderately acceptable, he tugged at the coverlet beneath them in an effort to have them sleep on just the clean sheet.

After much maneuvering of both Sherlock and the bed linens, John had them sufficiently arranged and the bedside lamp turned off.

As the darkness enveloped them, their relaxed and sated states quickly whisked them off to a deep sleep. John snuggled himself closer to Sherlock, his arm wrapped around the lanky man and their legs tangled together. Sherlock interlaced their fingers and rumbled something about more toast in the morning; on any other day, the prospect of "morning" might have sparked a flood of nervousness in John. But just now, all he could think of was warmth, tea, and breakfast, so he drifted happily off to sleep.

\------------------------

 

The bits of sun peaking through the open window or the sounds of the city outside could logically have been the first things to wake John up. Instead, he was roused from an _extremely_ pleasant dream by an odd tingling sensation across his neck and the vague thought that he no longer had a right arm.

Looking to investigate these thoughts further, John slowly roused himself to full awareness. He realize a few things: that he was in Sherlock's room, that Sherlock was laying quite unceremoniously on the right side of John's body with his face embedded in John's shoulder, and that he desperately needed the loo.

John shifted off the bed, moving himself as gingerly as possible, simultaneously trying not to wake Sherlock while maneuvering an arm that was not responding at all. After some unconscious grumbling from Sherlock, John managed to retrieve his pants from the floor before dashing into the bathroom - solving at least one of the issues he'd have to deal with today. Walking slowly back into the room that also contained most of his clothes, John faced the other.

Sherlock was sprawled across the space John had occupied, his face now firmly wedged into John's pillow and arms spread impossibly wide across the space. John was considering his options of waking him up or sneaking out and dealing with the implications of last night after a cup of tea (and proper clothes) when Sherlock's voice rumbled from the pillow.

"Please stop your unnecessary nervous breakdown and just come back into bed," Sherlock said, shooting John a half-lidded glare as he made space for him.

"I wasn't having a nervous breakdown," John quipped in return, sitting in the neutral space between Sherlock and the edge of the bed.

Sherlock managed a furious grimace.

"Alright, at least not much of one. Yet," John conceded.

"You were thinking about having one. As I said, unnecessary," Sherlock replied, reaching his hand to grasp John's thigh.

While the contact restored a bit of John's confidence, his natural state of doubting any kind of romantic reciprocation from Sherlock persisted.

"When we were… when we kissed and… last night--" John began.

Sherlock interrupted with a loud huff, propping himself up on his elbow to give John his best "you're an idiot" expression; though his ridiculous, bed-tousled curls and creases from the pillow on his face took away from the overall effect.

"Are you happy with how last night went?" Sherlock asked. "Though we gave consent and both reached climax in mutual physical contact with shared enthusiasm, would you wish for us both to continue as though it had not occurred?"

John stuttered a bit at the terminology, thrown-off by the extreme, direct approach; later he'd realize he shouldn't have been surprised at all.

"Well, I--" John started.

"Be honest and concise, John. There are better things we could be doing," Sherlock said.

"Yes to being happy about it. Uh, no with pretending it didn't occur," John replied. "If that's okay with you."

"Of course it is, John. Don't be daft," Sherlock growled, though his hand snuck up John's thigh and not-so-subtly attempted to pull him back down into the bed.

John gave in to the urge to roll his eyes as he slipped under the sheet and slid in next to Sherlock, who's eyes had slid closed once more. Sherlock's hand immediately traveled up John's spine, sending goosebumps down his entire body. John chuckled, shifting himself closer to Sherlock's hip and nestling his leg over his body.

"What was that about other things we could be doing, then?" John whispered into Sherlock's ear.

John nearly earned a black eye with how quickly Sherlock's head sprung up, missing the blur of dark hair by a second.

"Yes! The data!" Sherlock said, not moving his arm from John but instead stretching the opposite appendage toward the side table where his phone was resting.

Bringing the phone in between them (while also ignoring John's look of frustration and amusement) Sherlock began furiously typing with just his thumb, mumbling unintelligible things to himself.

John watched him fondly for a moment before the laughter he was holding in finally broke through.

"John?" Sherlock asked, barely glancing up from the screen.

"Sorry, it's just…" John began, thwarted again by his own laughter.

"Are you still feeling the affects of the marijuana? This is important, John," Sherlock asked, studying him closely over his phone.

"No, no, it's not that. Why?" John said.

"I'm cataloguing our reactions and responses to the drug for a case. That was the reason for smoking the substance in the first place, you know," Sherlock said, quirking his eyebrow at John as he resumed his typing. "It's fascinating. While you, more of an emotional and tactile person, resorted to logic and explanation, I became the opposite. You talked quite a lot when given the proper subject, while I was against speaking in general and had a heightened desire to feel and express through physicality. Quite unlike me."

"I know," John said with a lingering smile.

Sherlock finished his typing, tucking his phone back behind him before gathering John close once more.

"Do you know what else, John?" Sherlock said, his voice lowering to impossible depths as his lips skirted across John's.

"Hmm?" John replied, licking his own lips in anticipation.

"There is much, much more data to gather," Sherlock said, fully shifting to his side so he could bring them flush against one another. Even through his pants, John could feel his growing arousal and his breath rushed out in a moan.

"Oh?" He replied, rapidly losing all normal functions.

"Mmmh, yes. We'll have to replicate every aspect of last night in varying circumstances," Sherlock said, drawing his tongue across John's bottom lip.

John's mouth parted of it's own accord, his hips shifting closer.

"Sounds tedious," John said.

"Exceedingly," Sherlock replied.

But neither of them seemed to mind at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I made a playlist that I listened to constantly while writing [here](http://open.spotify.com/user/125335038/playlist/69Rbg31mUbzRncdQ80vxZv). It has the songs that I imagined them listening to in order.
> 
> I also wanted to note that I'm looking for a beta for the last chapter of my fic Hello, I Love You (but I'm close to just posting it anyway). If anyone would like to help me out, whether it's just this once or for other fics I plan to write after, please let me know!


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